What colour is God,
Asked the child with skin so fair
Is he white like me,
Does he have light hair?

Is God dark like me,
Asked the child with skin of golden hue,
Has he hair that’s dark and curly,
Are his eyes black or blue?

I think God is red like me,
The Indian boy is heard to say –
He wears a crown of feathers,
And turns our nights to day

Each one of us knows that God is there
In ALL the colours above
But be sure of this, the one colour he is,
Is the beautiful colour of love

So when your soul goes to Heaven,
When your life comes to its end –
He will be waiting, and his hand to you
Will he extend.

There will be no colours in Heaven,
Everyone will be the same.
You will only be judged by your earthly deeds,
Not your colour or your name

So when your time comes,
And you see God in his Heaven above,
Then you will see the only colour that counts,
The beautiful colour of LOVE.

I was but a youth and thoughtless,
As all youths are apt to be;
Though I had a Christian Mother
Who had taught me carefully.

There came a time when pleasure
Of the world came to allure,
And I no more sought the guidance
Of her love so good and pure.

Her tender admonitions fell
But lightly on my ear,
And for the gentle warnings
I felt an inward sneer.

But Mother would not yield her boy
To Satan’s sinful sway,
And though I spurned her counsel
She knew a better way.

She made my room an altar,
A place of secret prayer,
And there she took her burden
And left it in His care.

And morning, noon and evening
By that humble bedside low,
She sought the aid of Him who
Understands a Mother’s woe.

And I went my way unheeding,
Careless of the life I led,
Until one day I noticed
Prints of elbows on my bed.

Then I saw that she had been there
Praying for her wayward boy,
Who for love of worldly pleasure
Would her peace of mind destroy.

Long the conflict raged within me,
Sin against my Mother’s prayers,
Sin must yield – for Mother never
While she daily met Him there.

And her constant love and patience
Were like coals upon my head,
Together with the imprints
Of her elbows on my bed.

And so at last the fight was won,
And I to Christ was led,
And Mother’s prayers were answered
By her elbows on my bed.

You are strong . . . .
when you take your grief and teach it to smile.

You are brave . . . .
when you overcome your fear and help others to do the same.

You are happy . . . .
when you see a flower and give it your blessing.

You are loving . . . .
when your own pain does not blind you to the pain of others.

You are wise . . . .
when you know the limits of your wisdom.

You are true . . . .
when you admit there are times you fool yourself.

You are alive . . . .
when tomorrow’s hope means more to you than yesterday’s mistake.

You are growing . . . .
when you know what you are but not what you will become.

You are free . . . .
when you are in control of yourself and do not wish to control others.

You are honorable . . . .
when you find your honor is to honor others.

You are generous . . . .
when you can take as sweetly as you can give.

You are humble . . . .
when you do not know how humble you are.

You are thoughtful . . . .
when you see me just as I am and treat me just as you are.

You are merciful . . . .
when you forgive in others the faults you condemn in yourself.

You are beautiful . . . .
when you don’t need a mirror to tell you.

You are rich . . . .
when you never need more than what you have.

You are you . . . .
when you are at peace with who you are not.